


that one where dean gets back from purgatory

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anorexia, Blood Magic, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Dogs, F/M, Female Sam Winchester, Food Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Insecurity, Murder, Nightmares, Possessive Dean Winchester, Post-Purgatory, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Season/Series 08, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean spent a year in purgatory and now he has to figure out what Sam's been doing and how they're supposed to move on now that they're back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

// _Then_ //

He's caught in a staring contest with the dog until he hears a choking sob. His eyes immediately shoot over to Sam, who's sitting on her ass, shotgun across her lap, one arm wrapped around Shell. She's still looking at Dean, though, and what's left of his heart after purgatory breaks at the way she has to clear her throat before she murmurs, "C'me here, Clo."

The German shepherd snaps its teeth one more time, then lopes back to Sam, sprawls out on the ground right in front of her, over the tips of Sam's feet, eyes fixed on Sam. 

"Please don't tell me they share the bed," Dean says.

// _Now_ //

// _Day Zero_ //

Sam hiccup-laughs, looks half-manic, but she lifts one arm, holds out her hand in Dean's direction. "Please tell me you're real," she says. 

Dean wastes no time closing the space between them; he drops to his knees at Sam's side and gathers her up, getting a displeased growl from Clo at the same time. "Jesus," he says, one hand running down her back over and over again, his nose buried in the curve of her neck -- bonier than he remembers. "Christ, it's so good to see you, sweetheart." 

It takes a moment but then he feels a damp patch growing on his shirt. Tears, and Sam's not even shaking, not making any noise, not doing anything but clinging to Dean with all the strength she has. 

\--

Dean's not sure how long they're sitting there but he's lost feeling in his knees and feet by the time Clo makes a whining noise and bumps Sam's elbow with her muzzle. Dean pulls back and lifts his hands, uses his thumbs to rub dry the tear-tracks on Sam's face. "Hey," he says, quiet. "Everything's gonna be okay. Okay?" 

Sam nods, swallows, nods again. "Yeah," she says. Her voice is rough, worn ragged with crying, but she gives Dean the kind of smile he's been dreaming of throughout the past year, the kind of smile that kept him going in purgatory when all he wanted to do was lie down and die. "How are -- how did you get back?" 

"Long story," Dean says, "that you aren't gonna believe. But can I tell you inside?" 

Sam blinks, startled, and looks around like she's just realised they're still half-outside. "Oh, yeah, I --" and she stops, smile fading into something that looks a little wary, mostly tired. "Um. It's not -- I didn't -- there's not much food," she says. "We'll have to run to get groceries." 

That worries Dean. Sam's had issues with food her whole life, from when she was sixteen, going practically anorexic to keep from looking so obviously male during puberty, to a couple years ago, Lucifer in her head. He's always had to coax her to eat, lets her stick to the rabbit food she prefers as long as she's eating something and bites back his wish to fill her full of real butter and fatty meat and the richest, creamiest pasta around. She's always veered toward the unhealthy side of skinny but this, now -- 

"The place is a mess," Sam goes on to say. "And I haven't -- well, you'll see, I guess." 

Dean frowns but Sam's moving to stand up so he gets to his feet first, helps her up and then has to steady her when she blacks out for a split-second at the sudden change in altitude. He's helped by Shell, a solid presence behind Sam, and Clo looks up at Dean like this is his fault or something. He narrows his eyes at Clo, says, "So what's the deal with the --" and then stops when he gets inside, stops talking and moving both. "Jesus _fuck_ , Sam." 

The cabin was never the cleanest of places but it's gonna take a _lot_ of work to get it back to normal. All the furniture's been shoved to the edges and then haphazardly piled to the ceiling; there's a cauldron on the counter next to the sink and half a dozen more stacked on the floor. Salt crystals are fucking everywhere Dean looks and four giant-ass rings have been burnt into the floorboards, melted wax around and in them. A few sigils are spray-painted on the walls -- at least, he hopes that's spray-paint -- and there are, shit, books and paper _everywhere_ , some in piles, most just scattered around. It looks like Sam tried keeping to some kind of method at first, pinning notes and photographs and print-outs to the walls like their dad used to do, but gave up once she ran out of wall-space. Dean has no doubt that everything's organised in a way that Sam understands but it looks like someone bombed the shit out of a library and this is what's left. 

"You were gone," she says. "What did you expect me to be doing?" 

"What were you trying?" Dean asks. "I thought we found all there was on purgatory when the leviathans invaded." Sam bites her lower lip, looks away, and Dean glances again at the circles burnt onto the floor: summoning circles, three of them, but the fourth -- he has no idea what that fourth circle is. "Sam. What were you doing?" 

Sam sways on her feet; Dean pulls her across the room to the couch, moves the footstool and coffee table off the cushions, sends a few notebooks and used-up pens following, and then sits Sam down. Shell curls up by the front door but Clo sticks close to Sam, sits right by Sam's feet. Dean's not too sure about having the dog that close, not when it wanted to eat him an hour ago, but she doesn't seem to be doing anything but keeping an eye on Sam. There's something -- not exactly right about this dog, Dean thinks. 

He's getting ready to go and get a couple glasses of water but Sam clings to him, says, "Don't -- please don't leave." It's been a hell of a long time since Dean's heard that tone of voice coming from Sam. He sits down next to her and Sam's straddling him a moment later, her cheek on his shoulder, the breath coming from her mouth so close to his ear. "I can't -- Dean, you have to --" 

"Yeah, sweetheart," Dean says. "Don't worry, I got you. I'm here; I'm not going anywhere." He winces as soon as he says that -- the whole reason they're in this mess is because he fucking went somewhere -- but Sam doesn't respond except to hold onto him even tighter, nearly close to hurting.

"I was gonna come get you," Sam whispers. "I was getting so close, Dean, I swear; I got a portal to open for a second and I was working on making it last longer -- I was close, Dean, I wasn't gonna let you stay there, you have to believe me, please, I was gonna do whatever it took and I never stopped trying and I was _so close_ , I --." 

"I believe you," Dean says, cutting her off before the rambling turns into hyperventilating. It's all too obvious how much work Sam's done; sure, Sam can research with the best of them and she makes uncanny leaps of logic every so often to come up with something brilliant, but the sheer amount of books and paper and mess tells Dean that Sam started her own type of hunt very soon after he left and hasn't stopped -- judging by the state of her, she hasn't even stopped long enough to eat or sleep. 

Purgatory wasn't a cakewalk, that's for damn sure, but Dean had a purpose, he had allies, he had the hunt and the kill and the determination to get back to Sam. It was a different, cleaner, purer place where he never had to sleep or eat or drink, just survive, him against the monsters, no grey area, and Dean's always been able to thrive in that kind of environment if he knows he's got Sam waiting at the other end. 

Sam's just had _this_ \-- and hearing her say that she was going to do whatever it took? That's a little terrifying to think about, honestly. She can be ruthlessly pragmatic, a side of her Dean saw when she was soulless, and she's gone to dangerous lengths before, but opening a portal to purgatory, that's world-killing stuff, nightmare stuff. Maybe Dean's sick, but it warms him inside to know that Sam missed him so much she would've cracked the universe apart to get him back. The fact that she was paying such a high price, physically, though, that's no good. 

"How much sleep have you had lately?" Dean asks. 

There's a moment before Sam says, "Not much." It's clear she's keeping something from him; Dean pokes her in the ribs -- god, he needs to get some food in her -- and Sam sighs, says, "I started having fainting spells about four months ago. I think." 

Dean closes his eyes, inhales the smell of Sam, takes in the feel of her, the weight of her on his lap. "So you sleep when you pass out," he says, "and then it's back to work, just like that?" 

"The dogs and I go for walks," Sam argues. "And -- and we have company. Sometimes." 

"Yeah?" Dean asks, pushing down the irrational surge of jealousy. He had Benny and Cas, he can't be upset if Sam had someone to pull her back from the edge every so often -- just as long as that's all it was. 

Sam lets out a breath. "The vet, Amelia -- she comes over once a week. Brings food, checks on the dogs, sometimes stays for a cup of coffee. You'll like her; she's sweet." 

Dean makes a show of looking around the cabin, says, "She sees _this_?" 

"Well, I mean, I put rugs down to cover the floor, and I've got tapestries to hide the sigils," Sam says. "But -- yeah."

"And she hasn't said anything," Dean says, flatly, because god knows if he wasn't a hunter and he saw someone obsessed with trying to make a portal to purgatory, the _last_ thing he'd do is hang around long enough for a cup of coffee. 

Sam tenses in Dean's arms. "She thinks I'm a writer. I mean, I told her I was a writer. I figured it would keep the questions to a minimum. And I -- um. I keep the Latin, French, and English books in the bedroom. Everything out here is -- is something else." 

Dean narrows his eyes. "Greek?" he asks. 

"Some of it," Sam says. She sits up at Dean's prodding but doesn't meet his eyes. "Most of my notes are in Greek. But. Uh. Y'know. All the usual." 

"Sanskrit, Hebrew, Aramaic," Dean guesses. "What else?" 

"Arabic," she says, and alright, that's not a stretch, but then she says, rattles them off so quickly it takes Dean a second to separate each word and make sense of it, "Akkadian and a little Persian and then Classical Irish and Connaught Irish so I could read St. Fursa and I can only translate two dialects of Classical Sanskrit so I had to learn the other two and Kevin and I managed to --"

Dean stops her, puts his hand over his mouth when it looks like she's going to keep going, holy shit. He waits until she's settled and her breathing's gone back to normal, then takes his hand away and asks, "How many languages have you been studying in, Sam?" 

"I -- um. Nine, maybe ten?" she says, cautiously. Sam's probably underestimating; Dean can't help but shake his head at the thought but god, his sister's amazing. Sam, though, seems to take the head-shake as something else -- Dean's not sure what -- because Sam adds, "I'm not even close to fluent in all of them; I only know enough to translate with the help of a dictionary and some of them are so similar that they're almost nearly the same so they shouldn't really count. Dean. Are you -- you're not -- I promise, I didn't waste any time, I only learned what I needed to so I could get you out, swear." 

"I'm not worried about that," Dean says. He makes sure Sam's looking at him when he says, "You didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't spend any time for yourself. I'm worried about _you_." 

Sam looks at him, just looks, for a long while. Eventually she lets out a breath, says, "I still can't believe you're really here. _How_?" 

Dean brushes hair back from Sam's face, tucks it behind her ear and then gives in to the urge to let his fingers run down her cheek, says, "Would you believe me if I said I'm friends with a vampire now?" 

At Sam's look, Dean bursts into laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

// _Day One_ //

For the first few seconds after Dean wakes up, he's not sure where he is. The realisation comes back quick, brings a stunning wave of relief with it. He rolls onto his side, looks at Sam. She's sleeping curled in on herself, nose buried in Shelley's fur and Chloe sprawled over her feet, looks like she's nothing more than a tiny curve of bone with fur at the top and bottom. They fell asleep the way they always used to, Dean on his back, Sam half on top of him, and he's not sure when they moved but he feels the separation like a blade in the gut. 

God. Sam. 

He scoots closer to her, spoons around her, one hand settling over her stomach -- far beyond flat into dangerous starvation territory, and inhales the smell of her, that sweaty place at the base of her hair where all the tiny strands spring into curlicues at the slightest hint of humidity. There were so many times he thought he'd never see her again and yet they're both here, sharing a bed with two stray dogs that Sam picked up from the side of the road -- literally -- and brought home. Sam told him about that last night, was pretty much all she had time to tell him before exhaustion caught up with both of them and they decided to go to bed. They'd practically collapsed onto the mattress and the dogs had jumped up to join them; Sam gave him their names and their breeds and told him how she ran frantic into the vet's office with Shelley about two months after Dean -- after, and then Chloe a few weeks after that. 

Sam said he'd like Amelia but Dean's got an uneasy feeling about her in the base of his stomach; he's not sure why but the one thing he's learned to depend on apart from Benny and Cas are his instincts and they're screaming at him not to trust her. She helped the dogs, though, and tried to keep Sam fed, so Dean will give her a chance -- just one -- before he decides for good. 

"I'm up," Sam murmurs, voice rough with sleep. Shelley lifts her head but Chloe doesn't move. 

"You hungry?" Dean asks. Silence is his only answer; Dean exhales, says, "Okay, let me rephrase. _I'm_ hungry and I'm not eating without you." Sam starts to protest but Dean slides his hand up to her chest, presses his palm flat. "I can feel your ribs, Sam. I can feel every fucking bone, and you know just as well as I do that you need muscle and fat, like, yesterday. If all you can get down is a piece of toast, that's fine. But you need to get it down." 

It takes a moment and Dean thinks he's pushed too much, too soon, but then Sam moves a hand from Shelley's fur, puts it over Dean's, the one resting just under the curve of tits she barely has anymore. "I think there's some bread in the freezer," she says. "And -- 'Lia left eggs last time she was here. I think."

"Eggs and toast," Dean says. "Perfect." He presses a kiss to Sam's neck and moves to get up, intent on heading to the kitchen and getting them fed. Sam won't let go of his hand, though; she tells the dogs it's time to get up and starts moving with Dean. "You should stay in bed," he tells her. "You need more sleep." 

Sam lifts her chin, shoulders held with that air of stubborn determination she's so good at. "I'm not letting you out of my sight." 

Her eyes flash, challenging Dean to respond to that, and he's so relieved to see a spark of life in her, a hint of the old Sam, that he says, "Fine. Come on then." 

\--

Dean eats half a dozen eggs and three pieces of toast for breakfast. Sam eats his crusts. 

\--

They go into town, pick up some groceries and some cleaning and organisational supplies so they can start working on getting the cabin back in shape. Sam points out the vet clinic and someone coming out of the post office sees Sam as they drive past, waves at her. Sam lifts her hand, waves back. 

"Friend?" Dean asks, eyes on the road but ninety percent of his attention on his sister.

"Mailman," she says. "I set up a po box, had to run in every so often." 

All those books. Dean only caught a couple titles when he cleared off the couch, a few more when they went to bed and they had to move a couple dozen books off the mattress so they both had room to sleep, but he's willing to bet they have a small fortune in their hands -- not to mention an amazing, if specific, library. They're going to have to do something about those books but Dean's not sure what. 

"We don't have to stay here," Sam says, sudden, as they're driving back to the cabin. "I mean, we could go to Bobby's, or -- or wherever you want. Back on the road? We'll need to pick up the Impala; I had her towed to a storage unit but I didn't even try to find someone to fix her, I figured you'd wanna do that."

Dean glances over at Sam. She's staring out the window, arms crossed over her chest; Dean can see the thumb brushing back-and-forth over her sweater. As much as he doesn't like seeing that tell, it does soothe something inside of him. It's been a year and as much as Sam has changed, as much as parts of her seem shattered in jagged and untameable ways, some parts are still the same. 

The idea of Bobby's sounds good in principle but Sioux Falls has people, much more than out here, and Dean's not sure what kind of memories will start to haunt them both if they're anywhere near Singer Salvage. The Impala -- that's honestly a temptation, would be enough to put this town in Dean's rearview if Sam was up to the trip. She's not, though, and as much as Dean misses his baby, Sam's more important.

"Nah," he says. "Here's good for now." 

"And -- and hunts?" Sam asks, quietly. "I could start looking for some; you'll go stir-crazy being cooped up all day after -- y'know." He wants to say yes, so much, but Sam doesn't look like she'd last five hours in the car, there's no way in hell she's ready for a hunt. "You could call your vampire," she says. "Or there are other hunters. I don't like the -- I mean, you could go. Garth's a little loopy but he's steady enough when it counts, or there's --" 

Dean reaches over, takes Sam's hand and lets his fingers twine with hers, holding tight enough that that their fingers turn white with it. "I'm not leaving you," Dean says. "Not when I just got back. Not when you're in this condition." 

"I'm --" Sam starts to say. 

"If you even _think_ about saying you're fine," Dean says, practically growls, "then I'm going to tie you to a chair and pour carbonara down your throat until I can see it bulging in your belly." 

It takes Sam a moment to respond; Dean waits out the silence, doesn't apologise, doesn't explain or take it back. Finally, she lets out a breath and just says, "Kinky." 

\--

Sam starts cleaning up the books and papers while Dean's scrubbing wax off the floor. He'd wanted to begin with the sigils but Sam asked him if he'd mind leaving them up, that they can cover them with the tapestries so he won't even see them. He thought about asking what they meant or why she'd still want them but he keeps his mouth closed at her quiet, broken tone of voice. 

It's companionable, for the most part. Dean looks up every time he hears the sound of paper shuffling; Sam keeps Dean in her line of sight and has one eye on him the whole time. Chloe's never more than a foot away from Sam and Shelley's sleeping by the front door; her ears twitch every time Dean sprays more cleaner on the floor. 

It's going to take them all a while to get back to any kind of normal. 

"Benny," Dean says. He sees Sam flinch a little at the sudden noise but doesn't call her on it. "The vampire I was with in purgatory? His name's Benny, Benny Lafitte. I'm not sure how long I was there before he tracked me down but he convinced me we should partner up, said he had an exit strategy. He saved my life a few times, I returned the favour. Somewhere along the way we became friends." He chisels off a particularly thick piece of wax with a flat-head screwdriver, tosses the chunk of wax in the garbage. "There's a portal, sort of like an escape hatch, but it's only for humans. Benny knew a spell -- never did tell me how -- that put his soul into my arm. I carried him through the portal, then had to go dig up his body and finish the spell, put his soul back where it belonged." 

Sam sorts through the paper in her hands, finishes breaking her notes into three piles before she sits back on her heels and looks at Dean. "Where did the portal spit you out? And where was your vampire's grave?" 

Dean sits up as well, wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand and pops his back. "Maine," he says. "I came out halfway between the coast and Québec City, and let me tell you: I have never been so glad to be in Maine in my entire life. It took three days to get to Louisiana -- Clayton, we passed through it on the way from Natchez to Little Rock that one time, spirit attached to that creepy doll, remember that? It hasn't changed, either; still a tiny little town without much life in it." Dean pauses, snorts, says, "Guess I didn't help the ratio, huh." 

Sam's looking at him thoughtfully; he can almost see her brain whirring up and changing gears. He asks what's on her mind but she shakes her head, says, "You should invite him up for a visit." Dean stares and Sam shifts under his gaze, shrugs one shoulder and looks away. "I dunno. If you wanted."

"Why would you think I'd want to?" Dean asks, cautious. Either he's been away from Sam for far too long or she's never had this look on her face before, because he has no idea what she's thinking or why. 

"You said he's your friend," Sam says. "Seems to me we need as many of those as we can get. Besides, he's the one that sought you out, got you to the portal. I should say thank you." 

There's more to it than that, Dean's convinced, but Sam doesn't look like she's going to say anything more on the subject. "Maybe," Dean says. 

Sam nods a couple times, gets back to the mess. Dean keeps his eyes on her a little longer; he knows she can feel him watching and the longer it goes on, the more her shoulders tense. She doesn't tell him to stop, though. She doesn't look up, either. 

\--

Dean makes chicken, roasted vegetables, rice for dinner. He eats two and a half plates worth of food. Sam makes it through one nibble of meat, six florets of broccoli, and three baby carrots. Dean counts every bite she takes and doesn't say anything when she leaves her protein shake mostly untouched.

\--

They go to bed an hour or so after sunset. He could keep going, keep cleaning or cooking or just sitting with Sam, but she's half asleep and fading fast. Dean's looking forward to stretching out on clean sheets, feeling the luxury of a mattress and the rhythm of Sam's breathing; he doesn't mind turning in early at all. 

His appetite's come back -- hunger for food and sleep and the comfort of knowing that nothing's hunting him, sure, but now that he's here, Sam nestled up close, her hand on his chest, one of his hands on the naked skin of her hip, the lust starts to come back as well. Dean shifts, trying to move so he can go to the bathroom and take care of this without her noticing, but when he moves, both of the dogs wake up. 

Sam's response is instant. In the span of about two seconds, Sam's crouched on the floor next to the bed, silver knife in one hand and her favourite gun on the floor in front of her. She digs into her palm -- deep -- and uses the blood to draw a quick sigil on the wall in the span of time it takes Chloe to get to Sam's side and Shelley to press against the wall right by the door, just as ready as Chloe to attack. 

"Sam, jesus, what's -- it's fine, it's okay," Dean says, sitting up, moving the comforter to cover his crotch. Sam's response hasn't done anything to lessen his arousal; he's always gotten turned on watching her hunt and the blood's not enough to detract from the focus in her eyes and the tension in her muscles. She's so fucking gorgeous when she's not hiding how deadly she can be. "It was just me; I'm sorry." She glances at him but doesn't put down the knife. Instead, she turns her attention back to the door, whistles lightly. Shelley looks over and Sam gestures, some kind of sign Dean doesn't recognise, and Shelley goes trotting out of the bedroom. "Sam, c'mon, there's nothing out there. It was me." 

Shelley lets out a yip and Sam exhales, stands up and very carefully sets the weapons on the nightstand. Her hands are shaking. Chloe whines in the back of her throat; Sam drops to her knees and throws her arms around the dog, buries her face in Chloe's side. 

"Well," Dean says. "At least your reflexes haven't dulled. That's good to know."

Sam laughs but when she looks up at Dean, a minute or five later, her eyes are red, cheeks wet. "Sorry," she says, and Dean gets that the laugh, that was nothing more than bitterness making itself known. "I'm -- I keep a first aid kit under the bed on your side. Can you --?"

Dean bends, reaches, pulls out a wooden box. Every inch of every side is covered in sigils and charms, some of them carved in, some of them embossed. Dean knows this box, remembers it well, but he doesn't remember the top being stained this shade of rust-red brown before. 

He passes the box over to Sam and she places her palm -- the bleeding one -- on the top, whispers something under her breath that makes the latch unclick. Dean scoots over the bed so he can see what's in the first aid kit, and he blinks. If this is what Sam's been using for emergencies, before she can get to their real stash of medical equipment and drugs, then she's got a lot to tell him. 

There's the usual -- band-aids, rubbing alcohol, a tiny vial of holy water, medical tape, some gauze and an Ace bandage and a bottle of pain pills -- but the box is holding needles and catgut, a dozen pre-loaded syringes, a handful of rock salt bullets, another silver knife, something that Dean's guessing is a sling, two flasks, and three small jars: one loaded with coins, stained red; one full to the brim with iron shavings; one with -- dog treats. 

Sam gets rubbing alcohol over her cut, pushes some gauze on the bleeding and gets out the treats, throws a couple to Shelley and lets Chloe eat the others out of her uninjured hand. 

"You gonna need stitches?" Dean asks. 

"No," Sam says, after she peels back the gauze to check the bleeding. "Didn't go that deep. It only looked that way 'cause the scar tissue's built pretty thick." Dean lets out a breath, watches as Sam wraps the gauze in place, closes the box, shoves it back under the bed. She sits there a moment, then looks up at him, says, "You have questions," like there's no doubt in her mind. 

Dean weighs the opportunity for what it is, decides not to push when it looks like Sam's used up the last stores of her energy with that response. "I'm sorry," he says, instead. "I should've known better than try to sneak out. I was just -- uh. Bathroom." Sam frowns and looks like she's about to ask him something; Dean accepts that he's about to give Sam ammunition to tease him with, says, "I'm sleeping with you again, Sam, what'd you expect?" and gestures at his crotch. 

Sam narrows her eyes in confusion, but then they blow wide and a blush starts to rise up on her cheeks. "You didn't -- you weren't gonna --" 

"If I fucked you right now," Dean says, "I'd break you in half. And don't be offended, but you don't look like you're up to much of anything. So whatever you're thinking, stop it." 

"You're an idiot," Sam tells him. She scritches Chloe, tilts her head at the door when the dog looks up at her, panting. Chloe whines, a high-pitched, sad noise, but Sam clucks her tongue and waits. Chloe gets up, heads for the door, pauses and looks back at Sam before she leaves the room. Sam stands up, then, and closes the bedroom door, says, "I don't know how you feel about fucking in front of the dogs but it's gonna take me some time to get used to it. Lay down." 

Dean opens his mouth but then Sam's back on the bed, straddling his lap, kissing him. Her tongue strokes against his, her hands press lightly, so tentatively, on his hips. He wants to throw her down and get inside of her, jesus, wants to eat her out until she soaks the bed, but she's practically insubstantial in his hands. He circles his fingers around her wrists, pulls back from her. It's the last thing he wants to do but it's for her own good. 

"Sam," he says. "We waited for you to grow up; I can wait until you put some weight on. It's not gonna kill me to jerk off for a couple months." 

Sam scowls, tugs her hands free, then puts her palms on Dean's chest and _shoves_. He's not expecting the amount of force Sam puts into it; he falls backwards, head bouncing on the pillow. Before he can say or do anything, she's got the blanket off him, pulled down his underwear, has one hand around his dick. 

He groans, can't help the thrust his hips make, and says, "All right, your hand is definitely better than mine." He closes his eyes as she strokes and doesn't open them until there's a pause in the movement. When he looks, he sees Sam shedding her pyjama bottoms and biting her bottom lip. "Sam, there's no -- you don't have to do this." 

"Maybe I need to, okay," Sam says, and she starts to lower herself onto his dick. She's not wet, not even a little bit, so she keeps one hand around the base of Dean's cock, guides just the tip of his dick inside her, using his precome as lube. This keeps going until Dean's about to die of frustration but then Sam sinks all the way down, hissing a little at the burn, and fuck, he's missed her, missed _this_ , the way the two of them can connect like this, mind and soul and body, the way it should be. 

"Jesus," Dean murmurs. "God, Sam, don't -- please don't hurt yourself." 

Sam puts her hands on his chest, hooks her nails into his skin, a bitter tang of pain seeping its way through Dean's blood, hitting the pleasure and stoking it that much higher. "I'm not gonna break," she tells him, as she rides him, slow until she's open and then faster -- not as frantic as she usually is when they fuck in this position, but fast enough that it's all Dean can do to lay there, to not fuck up into her, to roll them over and take what he so desperately wants to. "I know I'm not pretty, I know I'm not -- that you may not want me anymore, but I've been dreaming about this for a fucking _year_ , Dean, you're not gonna take this away from me. Let me have this, please? Just please let me have this."

Dean growls, and he does roll them over, Sam hitting the mattress hard enough that the wind gets knocked right out of her. Dean freezes but Sam smiles up at him, wraps her legs around him and digs her heels into him, arches up into him. "You aren't _pretty_ ," he says, starting to fuck her hard and fast, just like he wanted, apparently like she wants. "You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my entire life. God damn it, Sammy, I killed my way through purgatory to get back to you, put my life in the hands of a _vampire_ to get back to you; if you think I don't want you anymore, you're fucking insane. And knowing you feel the same way, that you were practically killing yourself to get me back? I worry about you so much, baby girl, but damn if it doesn't make a man feel wanted." 

Sam lifts a hand, puts it on the back of Dean's neck and pulls his face towards hers. "Prove it," she whispers, and tilts her head up, opens her mouth. 

Dean kisses her, kisses her the same way he's fucking her, and there are going to be bruises all over her body, her lips are going to be scabbed over from the biting he's doing, her pussy's probably going to be sore for days, but she wants him to prove it, sounded so desperately young and unsure, that Dean just has to trust her. 

When he comes, it's almost a surprise. Sam closes her eyes, smiling, and by the time Dean's pulled out, she's asleep. 

He wipes off his dick, tries his best to clean her up, and then he curls around Sam and falls asleep as well.


	3. Chapter 3

// _Day Two_ //

Dean wakes up alone in bed; he sits up so fast that he gets a little dizzy. Sam's in the corner; she starts laughing at him and it's the most beautiful sound Dean's ever heard. 

"Morning," she says. "I woke up, figured I could start putting the shit in here into some kind of order." 

"You didn't want to let me out of your sight," Dean guesses. Sam rolls her eyes but doesn't disagree. His eyes dance over her swollen lips, her kiss-bruised neck, the fingertip-marks around her wrists, then go back up to her eyes. "Sam, I'm not going anywhere. And even if I did, I'd come right back to you." 

Sam looks at him, studies him, and Dean holds himself wide open for her, the way he always has. Whatever she sees has the tension in her shoulders dropping. "I know," she says, soft. "But it's gonna take a while to accept it. Sometimes I -- it's still hard to believe you're really here. You know?" 

Dean's gone to hell and Sam went to the cage -- they know how difficult it can be to get used to each other after soul-changing separations. They've done it before, though; they can do it again. They will do it again. 

"I know," he says. "And you're gonna wish I was back in purgatory when I ask you what the hell you were into while I was gone. Your first-aid kit, the sigils, the summoning circles -- you have to explain it all to me, every last thing. I didn't push yesterday but I'm going to. I have to. Seeing you last night, the blood -- I need to know what I'm dealing with here, sweetheart." 

"I don't want to," she says, "but you're -- yeah. I will. Whatever you wanna know." 

Dean lets out a breath. "Food first," he says. "For both of us," he adds, giving Sam a warning glance when she opens her mouth to argue. She scowls but nods, reluctantly, and follows Dean into the kitchen, dogs at her side the second he opens the bedroom door. 

\--

Dean eats six waffles and a whole punnet of raspberries. Sam eats half an apple and has three sips of a protein shake. 

\--

They shower together -- Sam's not joking about not letting Dean out of her sight -- and once they're dressed, they get back to work on cleaning up. Dean's hacking away at the wax and asks, "So what's the story with the summoning circles?" 

There's a pause across the room; Sam had been taking everything down from the walls but she freezes, hands hovering mid-air. Dean doesn't look up but he knows she's looking at him. He doesn't say anything, just keeps scraping the wax. 

"I summoned some demons," Sam says, going back to her work. Dean glances at her, eyes narrowing as her hands start to shake. "Some angels, too. And -- a few other things, creatures, beings, whatever you wanna call 'em. I was trying to find a way into purgatory; I figured some of them might have some answers, maybe they'd heard things or knew who else or what else I should talk to. I started off pretty harmless but about four months in, it just seemed more prudent to let the circles build up rather than clean them after each ritual. The circles were stronger that way, both in the summons and in the containment. Some of the things I talked to were -- helpful," she adds. "Some of them, not so much. But I learned a lot." 

"How high up the ladder did you get?" Dean asks. 

He looks up at her; Sam keeps her attention on the wall. "Pretty far," she says. "I went old for demons." 

Dean sits up, narrows his eyes. "And angels?" 

"I started with thrones and principalities," she says, tone snappish and abrupt, like she doesn't want to go into any more detail. "Worked my way up from there." 

"Who, Sam," Dean asks; anything she doesn't want to talk about is probably something he should know. He's got a sinking suspicion that he knows what names she's going to say. Thrones are all well and good but archangels are the highest ranked and there were only ever four of them. Two of them are dead -- that doesn't leave many options.

Sam rips a piece of paper off the wall; the sound of it tearing fills the silence. "Turns out there's a way to talk to a being even if they're caged up," she says. "I talked to Michael. And then when he didn't have much to say, I --" 

"Please don't tell me you summoned fucking _Lucifer_ ," Dean says, cutting her off. He's half shocked, half disgusted, one hundred percent horrified. "Sam." 

"I had to tweak the summoning to include a form of bilocation for him and Michael," she says. "It took forever to figure out and we nearly burnt the cabin down before we got it right but it means they weren't actually here. I was fine."

Dean just -- has no words. He remembers what she was like back when she was possessed, remembers how soulless Sam didn't like to be touched, remembers the screams when Death gave her her soul back, remembers what it was like after she woke up with her memories and how she didn't sleep, didn't eat, took months to get back to anything remotely resembling stable. There's no way she was _fine_. 

And she did it for him. She faced her torturers, her rapists, the two beings who tore Sam's soul apart for millennia in increasingly imaginative and violent ways -- she faced them _alone_. For him.

"How did you get them to cooperate?" Dean asks, after a deep breath. "I can't imagine either of them were willing to talk to you." 

"It's not important," she says. "They talked, that's what counts." 

Dean can see Sam shaking, just a little, as she puts one hand on the wall to steady herself. He stands up, goes over to her, wraps his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. "Said you were gonna tell me everything, sweetheart," he reminds her gently. He hates to push but it's better to do it now rather than not know later when he might need to. 

At least, telling himself that might help him sleep tonight.

Sam draws in a shaky breath, lets out an even shakier one. "Kevin," she says. "We hammered out enough Enochian to -- well, between the Enochian and the type of summoning, they didn't really have a choice."

"Do you speak Enochian now?" Dean asks. His voice doesn't sound anything but curious and he's so very, very relieved. 

"No," she says. "I can't speak it; human mouths just can't form the words. But I can read it. Mostly." She's tense in his hold; Dean knows there's more and he waits for it, telling himself not to react, not to do anything but listen and listen with thanks, because she was putting herself through this for _him_. "We figured I was able because of the traces of Grace Death left in my soul; at least Lucifer was good for something," she adds, bitterly. "But the summoning required a blood sacrifice, so before I did the spells, I anchored myself to Chloe. It's why she seems so -- it's why she's attuned to my moods."

A blood sacrifice. From the way Sam's talking, she used her own blood -- and twice. Human blood's definitely more powerful -- not a bad thing at all, two archangels in the mix -- but the amount she must've lost, and _twice_ , shit. Dean almost wishes she'd sacrificed other people instead and he's not sure if that's a sign of how much purgatory changed him or how much he loves her. 

Every second he doesn't say anything, Sam stiffens in his hold. By the time Dean says, "The anchoring spell and the blood sacrifices, that's what you used the fourth circle for?" she's barely even breathing. 

"Yeah," she says. "Dean, are you --"

"Relieved you're okay? Yeah. Angry?" He thinks back to purgatory, how ruthless he was, how many monsters he put down, the way he left Cas behind and then ditched Benny to survive a new century all alone, just so he could get back to Sam. If he was in her place and had to summon the angels, he would've. "I can't blame you," he says. "Not when I would've done the exact same thing. But it terrifies me that you were alone here. Anything could've happened, Sam -- I know, it didn't, and that's the only thing keeping me from freaking the fuck out right now. Jesus. You're a goddamned miracle." 

Sam turns in his hold, looks at him with such confusion that he can't help smiling as he uses his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles on her forehead. "I'm not," she says. "You shouldn't -- you don't know everything. I haven't -- there's more, Dean. There's so much more. _You're_ the miracle. You're here; you found a way out and you came back." 

"'Course I did," Dean says, light and easy. "Like I'd do anything else. Dumbass." Sam glares and Dean sighs, says, "You remember after I got out of hell, how you said that it didn't matter what I'd done, because it was for you? And I said how what _you'd_ done hadn't mattered 'cause it was for me? All that's still true. I hate the thought of you going through all of this -- especially by yourself -- but you did it for me. There's nothing you can tell me that's gonna make me change my mind about that. _Nothing_. So we're going to get you better, we're going to tell each other everything -- _everything_ , Sam -- and then when we're ready, we'll get caught up on what's happened with the rest of the world and get back out there." He waits for a response; when he doesn't get one, he narrows his eyes, says, "Deal?" 

"Deal," Sam replies, "you fucking jerk." 

Dean laughs. "Yeah, but I'm your fucking jerk, you bitch."

\--

Dean gives up on the circles for a while and helps Sam take down her notes, sort them, put them into folders. She explains as she goes along, how all the pieces go together, and it's not everything but she's easing into it and Dean can't blame her for that. What she's telling him now is going to take long enough to wrap his mind around; there are so many times that Dean just has to stop and shake his head, remind himself how to breathe. Sam's smart, always has been, but this is a whole new level, and even though Dean knows what kind of toll it took on her, it's still impressive. He can keep up with it all separately but the way Sam makes it fit is six kinds of genius and she must've gone through so many iterations that didn't work before she struck something that did, even her perseverance blows his mind. 

They stop for lunch and Dean eats two sandwiches and a whole family-size bag of Doritos. Sam eats three slices of turkey and tells him to wash his hands before he even thinks about touching any of her books or notes. 

The afternoon is spent much in the same way as the morning. Sam tells him about the books -- where they came from, what she traded them for, how she translated them and why she needed them -- and Dean tells her about purgatory. Every so often, Sam reaches over, puts her fingertips on Dean's arm. He doesn't ask why and she doesn't explain; both of them know she's doing it to reassure herself that he's still there. He thinks about what she said to the dogs, that first day -- _I'm the one that sees things_ \-- and wonders what the hell she was talking about. As far as he can guess, there are two options: either she's been hallucinating or she's having visions. Dean's not sure which would be worse.

At sunset, with Dean's stomach practically eating itself, it's so hungry, they break for dinner. Dean eats two steaks, a giant baked potato, and an entire head of broccoli. Sam eats a piece of toast -- with real butter, this time -- and finishes off the protein shake from breakfast. 

An hour later, after Sam's vomited most of it out, they decide she's moving too fast. Dean wants to scream because they're already going slow. Instead, he takes Sam to bed and rubs off against her leg while she clings to him and tells him how glad she is that he's back, that they're together, that she's never letting him go again.


	4. Chapter 4

// _Day Three_ //

A scream wakes Dean up, has him going from sound asleep to eyes-wide-open and holding a gun in a fraction of a second. It doesn't take him long at all to assess the situation, come to a heart-rending conclusion. Chloe's on the bed, sitting next to Sam and whimpering, licking Sam's cheek and making little whining noises every so often as she rubs her nose on Sam's neck. Shelley's at the door but doesn't look like she's protecting them from anything. Sam's got tear tracks going down her cheeks, is making tiny aborted movements in something that looks suspiciously like pain. She opens her mouth, screams again, and this time her back bows for the length of her scream before she collapses back to the mattress, hitching little cries as she tries to fight whatever she's seeing. 

Dean's frozen but at the sign that the next scream's coming, he puts the gun down, reaches over, shakes Sam, says, "Sam, sweetheart, come on, wake up, it's just a dream." 

It doesn't help. Sam's too caught in whatever nightmare she's living; she screams again, the noise echoing through the house and reverberating in Dean's bones. Once the scream's faded, Dean leans closer, shakes Sam a little harder, and he hears her talking. She's quiet, words barely discernable from the sobs, but it's a steady chorus of "No, no, please, don't," and "Dean, come back, please, Dean." 

Sam had nightmares sometimes when he was little and the only way Dean could get Sam to snap out of them was to lay right on top of him, like Sam could feel the pressure covering him, felt safe enough to wake up knowing that Dean was right there, protecting him. Dean had tried that once after Sam got out of the cage and got her soul back; he ended up with a broken nose, three broken fingers, bruised ribs, and a black eye. He's not sure if the old trick would work now or if it would make Sam panic even more but Sam's not waking up and she's screaming, again, throat getting hoarse. 

With Chloe watching, Dean straddles Sam's hips, puts his hands on her cheeks, leans down and nuzzles her neck on the opposite side from the dog. "I'm here," he tells her. "Sam, wake up, I'm here, it's me, everything's okay." 

She bucks, nearly knocks Dean off, but Chloe steadies him, gives him plaintive, helpless eyes and a low whine to fucking _do_ something. He pins Sam's wrists down to the mattress, sprawls out on top of her, kisses her in between reassurance that he's here, that he's not going anywhere, that it's safe to wake up. 

Sam does, suddenly -- her eyes fly open and she fights the hold on her wrists for a second before she recognises Dean. Then she practically goes boneless, chest heaving for breath between the weight of Dean on her chest and the panic from the dream. Sam stares up at him and Dean lets her wrists go -- slowly, carefully. 

"Yeah?" Dean asks. 

"Yeah," Sam says. She throws her arms around him, holds him so tight he can barely breathe, and starts crying. 

\--

They do eventually fall back to sleep. It takes Sam a while; she keeps waking herself up when she's on the verge of sleep, body jerking. She's scared the dream will come back, Dean knows, so he just makes sure she knows he's there, that he's not leaving, that he's fine and she's fine and they're back together. 

Once Sam's asleep and Chloe's calmed down as well, is stretched out on Sam's other side, Dean stares at the wall and tries to will himself back to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, though, he sees Sam, the way she looked at him the first moment after she woke up, fury and fear in her expression. He can guess why she's having the nightmares -- judging by Chloe's reaction, this isn't the first time -- and he can guess what they're about. 

If Lucifer wasn't already in hell, Dean would put the bastard there himself, him _and_ the angel's fucking asshole brother. 

Dean does feel guilt, though, god, does he ever. Sam spent half an hour throwing up because he'd pushed her to eat and now that she's getting some regular sleep again, her mind has enough energy to dream. It's necessary, he knows that -- Sam needs food, she needs rest, she needs to start recovery now before they both put it off and never address it -- but he still hates himself for doing this to her. 

Hours later, around dawn, Dean falls back into a restless sleep, clutching tight to his sister. 

\--

Sam's awake when Dean swims back to consciousness. She has one hand on top of his heart, one leg thrown over one of his, and he doesn't even need to open his eyes to know she's awake. 

"Y'okay?" he asks, then yawns, cracks his jaw. 

"Was until you gave me a face-full of morning breath," Sam says. "Or afternoon breath, I guess. It's about three." 

Dean hasn't slept that long in over a year. "How long've you been watching me sleep?" Dean asks, adds, "Because that's not creepy at all." 

Sam swats him and he opens his eyes to see her smiling at him. "Like you haven't done that for years. And I dunno, not long. I -- um. I got up, fed the dogs, let them out for a few minutes." 

How she did all of that without waking Dean up is a mystery, but the important thing is that she finally trusted that he's here enough to go into a different room, to let Dean out of her sight. She hasn't even let him shit alone since he's been back. This is -- well, on the one hand, it's a relief to know that they may eventually reach some kind of normal again. On the other hand, it hits Dean that he's maybe just as anxious to keep Sam in his sights. Maybe it was purgatory, or seeing her the way he did, that first moment she opened the door, but Dean's heart skips a beat at the thought of her being alone, opening the front door, being outside by herself. 

"Bet you didn't have time to get any food on," he says, teasing, but Sam's eyes shine and he looks at her, gapes. "You -- there's food?" 

"Not until dinner," she says. "It's just stew, nothing fancy, but -- it sounded good." 

It's a goddamned miracle.

\--

Sam's out back, attacking the stack of cauldrons with some super-strong cleaner that Dean can smell hints of even in the kitchen where he's making them breakfast. The door's open and Dean's singing along to the radio; Sam can hear him just like he can hear the noise of her scrubbing, rinsing, the good-natured comments she makes about his voice. It's the furthest they've been apart while they're both awake; they're both anxious about it but doing their best. 

Dean's focusing on his pancakes, the perfect moment to flip them, and trying to decide if they should even try to clean the summoning rings off the floor or just give up and leave them rug-covered, when Shelley lifts her head and looks at the front door. He instantly takes the pan off the burner, turns off Sam's oatmeal, reaches for the closest knife and heads for the door. 

Whoever's outside is not shy about it; he hears a car door slamming, hears someone come clumping up to the door, juggling things in her hands -- her, because she's muttering to herself as well, nothing loud enough for Dean to decipher but loud enough for him to hear. Shelley stands up but doesn't look upset. Instead, the dog looks as if she knows who's there, because her ears are pricked and she's got her mouth open, panting out a canine type of smile as she goes to the door, rears up and starts nosing at the handle. 

"Hey, Shelley-girl," the woman outside says. "Where's Clo, huh? Everything okay?" 

The handle jiggles and Dean's there a split-second later, opening the door and planting himself firmly in the entrance. 

The woman's shorter, dark-haired, her skin milk-pale like she never gets outdoors. She's staring at Dean with wide eyes, two paper bags and a couple take-out boxes in her arms, and her mouth is opening and closing as if she's trying to come up with words, just can't. 

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks. 

"Amel -- I'm -- who the hell are _you_? Where's Sam?" she asks in reply. 

Dean hears the clicking of Chloe's nails on the floor, can smell the nostril-burning odor of Sam's bleach cleaner, and he moves to the side as Sam slides a hand onto the small of Dean's back, leans into him. "I'm here," Sam says. "I was just doing some cleaning. Amelia, this is Dean. Dean, this is Amelia, the vet I told you about." 

"This is -- are -- Dean?" Amelia says, jaw dropped like she can't believe it. "When did -- how is -- _Dean_? Holy shit, Sam, you have to be thrilled." She pauses, narrows her eyes as she takes Sam in: clean clothes, hair pulled back in a tight French braid, the skin under her eyes lighter than the midnight-black Dean found her with, the stress in her face a little harder to see. Amelia does frown a little, though, seeing the bruises on Sam's neck and arms, asks, "Are you okay?" 

Dean glares, wraps an arm around Sam and pulls her tight, wishes he could lay an even more obvious claim to her, because he can see the adoration in Amelia's eyes, see the way Amelia's taking Sam in. His instincts weren't wrong; he hates Amelia not five minutes into their first meeting because he can tell that she's head-over-heels in love with his sister. "Yeah, she's gettin' there," he says. Sam looks up at him, puts her hand on his cheek for a second, and he nips at her palm before letting go, stepping back from Sam with visible effort. "Your friend staying for breakfast?" 

Amelia blinks. "Breakfast? It's three in the -- oh. _Oh_." 

"Come on in," Sam says, tilting her head at Amelia and closing the door behind the other woman. 

Chloe follows Sam over the fridge, keeps on her heels as Sam takes out a bottle of sparkling water and hands it over to Amelia. Shelley's with Amelia, sniffing her feet, the things she's carrying. Amelia drops to one knee, lets Shelley lick her cheek, and Dean goes back to his pancakes as she sits down at the table. 

"So," Amelia says. "This is Dean, huh?"

Dean looks over his shoulder, meets eyes with Sam, who's pulling out one of the chairs at the table, perching across from Amelia. He's sort of curious to know how Sam explained him -- and his absence -- to someone new, a civilian that didn't know them before, so he just shrugs one shoulder and turns his attention back to the stove. 

"Yeah," Sam says. 

"You said he was MIA," Amelia says, prying a little deeper. Dean plates the pancakes, dumps Sam's oatmeal in a bowl and stirs in a little cream, a touch of honey. "I thought --"

Sam cuts her off; Chloe snarls at the same time. "Leave it, 'Lia. Please. He's back, that's enough."

There's no sign of anger on Sam's face when Dean turns around, hands full, but Chloe's sitting at Sam's side, snarling silently in Amelia's direction. For the first time, Dean realises: Sam might be able to hide her emotions like she doesn't have them to begin with, but Chloe can't or won't. Either way, Sam's going to be a lot easier to read now. 

Dean sets the bowl of oatmeal in front of Sam and sits down next to her, pancakes bouncing as he thumps the plate on the table. Sam doesn't pick up her spoon or reach for the bowl; Dean looks at her until she sighs, rolls her eyes, and takes a violent bite of oatmeal, gives him a look that says, 'Are you happy now?' Dean simply starts slicing into his pancakes, wonders idly if he'll ever get his taste for syrup, specifically, and sweet things, generally, back. 

He can feel Amelia looking at him, eyes narrowed, body tense -- and he doesn't care, not one whit, not when Sam's got her feet tangled in with his under the table, when a line of stress has gone out of her shoulders now that they're touching again. 

"I have to admit," Amelia says, "you're not what I imagined, Dean." Sam's gone still, has stopped picking at her oatmeal, and Dean finishes chewing his mouthful, swallows it and looks at Amelia, head cocked to one side and warning look in his eyes. "Not at all how I imagined Sam's husband." 

Husband. Fuck.

They've never talked about it before. Oh, sure, they've joked once or twice, but they've always belonged to each other, never really needed that extra step because Sam is his and he's Sam and that's enough for them, especially with the phoenix tattooed around Sam's wrist. The thought of marriage, though -- Dean always figured they weren't going to cross that level of crime or blasphemy but he's had dreams about it, idle musings of what it would be like to introduce Sam as his wife for real rather than just when they're play-acting to work a case, so what. It's not like either of them need a ring when they both know what they are. 

Hearing that Sam told Amelia -- possibly the only other human she's talked to regularly since Kevin -- that Dean's her husband, though, that makes him look at his sister, corners of his mouth curved up enough for Sam to see. She looks back at him, eyes shining with laughter and pride and love, all that stubborn, willful love Sam gifted to him so long ago. She raises an eyebrow and Dean laughs, can't help it. 

"Should I ask what you imagined?" Dean asks Amelia. "Or let it go?" 

"It's definitely more complimentary than the real thing," Amelia says, under her breath but loud enough for Dean and Sam to hear. 

Sam opens her mouth but Dean nudges her feet. She looks at him; he says, "Why don't you let the dogs out, sweetheart. Chloe looks like she needs some space for a few minutes." Without a word, Sam gets up, picks up her oatmeal, and heads for the back, dogs at her heels. Before she closes the door behind her, she looks at Dean, warning and gratitude vying for supremacy. He nods, silent reassurance, and Sam lets out a breath, closes the door. A moment later, her face is at the window; this is the first time they've had a door closed between them and Dean hates it just as much as he thinks Sam must.

"That," Amelia says, pulling Dean's attention away from Sam. "That's what I'm talking about. You fucking _commanded_ her and I have never seen her that meek in the year we've known each other. There are bruises all over her. What have you done to her?" 

"Loved her," Dean says, instantly. " _That's_ what I've done, for years, now."

Amelia stands up; Dean does as well, takes a step back from the table so he's not as tempted to reach across the space and throttle her. "Well, where the fuck have you been, then?" Amelia says. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides; evidently she wants to hurt Dean as much as he wants to hurt her. "Where were you when Sam threw herself so far into her research that she wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping, wasn't _living_ , just so she'd have something to distract her from you not being here? How the hell do you think you can just waltz back into her life like nothing's happened, huh? And how could you leave someone like Sam in the first place? Why did you come back -- why are you really _here_ when you've been gone for a year? No one else would let you treat them the way you treat Sam, is that it? No one else out there'll let you beat them?" 

Dean bares his teeth in a feral smile; his respect for Amelia goes up a little when she doesn't so much as flinch from the sight. "I'm here because Sam's here," he tells her. "And I would've been here even sooner if I could've. You don't know me, you don't know Sam, you don't know what our lives are really like, so _back the fuck off_." 

Amelia matches Dean's smile, matches his tone of voice. "You should've stayed gone and let her take a chance on someone else, someone who wouldn't treat her the way you do." 

"You mean you?" Dean snaps. "Believe me, I know what a person looks like when they're in love with Sam and it's written all over your face. I can't blame you -- god knows she makes it easy to love her -- but she would never love you back, not the way you want." 

"You left her for a year," Amelia says. "You don't know her anymore, not like I do." 

Dean snorts, then laughs. He can't help it. "Believe me, I know Sam just fine. So thank you for taking care of her while I was gone but the second she puts on enough weight to be healthy, we're leaving and we won't be back." 

Amelia flinches, hearing that. She doesn't seem to have any response, doesn't know how to react, and that's perfect timing, really, because Sam comes back inside, evidently unwilling to wait anymore. She looks between them, rolls her eyes at Dean but smiles, too. 

"Are the two of you done?" Sam asks. Shelley romps inside, goes to Dean and not Amelia, and Chloe looks ready for a nap. 

"You don't have to take him back just because he showed up at your front door," Amelia tells Sam. "It's your choice, Sam." 

Sam crosses the room, stands next to Dean. She looks up at him and he looks back at her, reaches for her hand and finds hers already waiting. "I know," Sam says, gently. She turns to Amelia, says, "Dean's always been my choice, 'Lia, and he always will be."

Amelia nods, swallows hard once or twice, asks, "He said you were going to leave. Is that true?" 

"Dean's never been the type to sit still for very long," Sam says. "So yeah, when he's had enough time to go so stir-crazy he won't care how much weight I've put on or how much I sleep, we'll be leaving. And that's my choice, too," Sam adds, cutting Amelia off before she can do more than open her mouth. "I was ready to go the second I saw him." 

Sometimes there are no words for how much Sam makes Dean's chest feel ten sizes too small to contain his love for her. 

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I didn't -- I've never been very good at recognising how others feel about me. If I'd known, I -- I'm sorry, 'Lia." 

"Me, too," Amelia says. She stands there, drinks in the sight of Sam, eventually says, "I should go." 

Dean bites back the urge to say that she should've gone a long time ago but Amelia kept Sam alive so he says, "We'll be here at least another month. You can --"

Amelia cuts him off, eyes reddening, hands clenching and unclenching. "I think it's better if I don't," she says. "Good -- good luck, Sam." 

She heads for the door, leaves without fanfare, and Dean hears her car start up a minute later, hears her peel out of the drive and back towards town. 

"You were too hard on her," Sam says. "But you weren't wrong." 

Dean gathers Sam up in his arms, plants a kiss on the top of her head. "You told her I was your husband," he says. "Would you -- I mean, is that -- _shit_ , Sammy." 

Sam snuggles closer, impossibly closer, and says, "Someday, maybe."

\--

Dean eats his pancakes. Sam makes a valiant attempt at her oatmeal and manages to eat half the bowl. It stays down. 

\--

That night, after Dean has three bowls of stew and Sam almost makes it through a mug-full, Sam says, "You've met mine. I think I should meet yours. Maybe yell a little, too; I wouldn't want you to have all the fun." 

They're in bed, Shelley stretched out next to Dean, Chloe curled up with Sam, and neither of the dogs reacts when Dean snorts. "There's no reason for you to yell at Benny," Dean says, "promise. But -- only if you're sure, Sam." 

"Yeah," she says. Her stomach gurgles; digesting food is something it'll have to get back in the habit of doing but the noises are kind of amusing and it's been almost two hours since dinner, at least the stew is staying down. "I'm sure. Tell me what he's like? What should I expect?" 

Dean smiles, thinks of how much Benny's going to love Sam and wonders if he'll have to scare another person away from her. "He'd make a good hunter but underneath, he's really kind of soft," Dean says, quietly, barely above a whisper. "He likes to cook, adores the human family he has left with an unnerving amount of devotion, loves hard and deep. He was a pirate for a while, him and his kiss -- vampirates, I called them. It made him laugh. He loves the water; I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up living in the bayou or on a houseboat, honestly." 

"He sounds a lot like you," Sam mumbles, already half-asleep. "Minus the water. Does he know you get seasick?" 

"Knows and has made fun of me for it, don't worry," Dean says. "He's gonna like the lake, I think; he always did better in purgatory when we were by water." 

Sam yawns, asks, "D'you think he'll approve of me?" 

"Already does," Dean reassures her. "I'm gonna have to beat him off with a stick. I told him all about you; we had a lot of time to talk. I told him about our childhood, how we grew up, told him you were my sister and that we'd been sleeping together since you were old enough. Told him you saved the world, once." Sam makes a noise and Dean's sure that she's close enough to sleep that he feels comfortable saying, "Told him I love you. So much, sweetheart. Told him you were the only reason I was even trying to stay alive." 

There's no response. Dean's more than okay with that.


	5. Chapter 5

// _Day Four_ //

Benny calls before Dean can call him. 

They're outside after breakfast, Dean cleaning the cauldrons Sam didn't get to yesterday. Sam's sprawled out on the ground next to him, half-asleep and half-watching Dean, soaking in the sunlight like she's a cat instead of a person. The phone's on vibrate -- Dean honestly hadn't been expecting anyone to try and get a hold of him, especially since he hasn't give out the new number to that many people; it makes him jump and Sam opens her eyes at his movement. 

Dean doesn't recognise the number, answers, "Hello?" with more than a little caution in his voice. 

" _Hey, brother_." 

"Benny," Dean says. "Hey. I was gonna give you a call later. How the hell're you doing?" 

Sam sits up, covers her mouth as she yawns, but Benny's sigh is still loud enough for Dean to hear. " _Not the best_ ," Benny admits, a hint of self-deprecating laughter in his voice. " _Hate to bother you, Dean. Guess I just needed to hear a friendly voice._ " 

Dean looks at Sam, who nods, motions for Dean to go on, and Dean rolls his eyes, says, "Sam wants to meet you." Silence from Benny's end, so Dean goes on. "Said she'd like to meet the guy that pulled my ass out of purgatory. If you -- if you wanna, we're up in Montana."

" _Are you sure she ain't just sayin' that to get me up there so she can run a knife through my neck_?" Benny asks, and Dean knows there's more than a hint of wariness in the joke. Benny might be one of the deadliest killers Dean's ever met but faced with a hunter like Sam Winchester, after all Dean told him? He can't blame Benny one bit. 

Dean tilts the phone away from his mouth, doesn't cover it, lets Benny hear what he and Sam are saying. "Benny wants to be sure you aren't going to kill him," Dean tells her. "You're not going to kill him. Are you?" 

Sam snorts. "Hardly," she says. "I might smack him for being stupid enough to let you tag along but don't worry," she says, a little louder, "I'll turn around and smack Dean for not bringing you back here with him, Benny. If I can call you that." 

" _Tell 'er she can call me whatever she wants_ ," Benny says. " _Dean. Are you really sure_?" 

"Call me when you're an hour from Kalispell," Dean says. "I'll come down and pick you up; we can raid the Red Cross."

Benny laughs. " _Kalispell, Montana. Got it_." He pauses, says, quieter, " _Thanks, brother._ " 

Dean hangs up, looks at Sam. She has a cat-eating-canary grin on her face and Dean sighs, looks up at the sky, says, "What." 

"You said your vampire was a pirate," Sam says. "This means we'll need a boat to take him out on the lake. Looks like you'll have to pick up some Dramamine while you're out robbing hospitals and blood banks." 

" _You_ can go out on the lake with him," Dean says. "I'm not getting within a foot of any kind of boat or boat outing or -- or whatever." 

Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him; he looks at her and her grin is gone, something tentative and wary, maybe even slightly hurt, on her face. Dean raises an eyebrow in question and Sam asks, "You'd send us out on the lake without you?" 

He can't figure out why Sam would have that expression, says, cautiously, "Well, you said you weren't gonna kill him, and he knows I'd do worse than just kill him if he ever hurt you. So -- yeah, if you wanted to go out on the lake with him, sure. Why?"

Chloe's whining even in her sleep. Sam looks down at the dog, strokes along Chloe's side a few times. She shakes her head, says, "Nothing," and lays down next to Chloe, half cuddling close to the dog, half pulling Chloe into her arms. "No reason."

It's clear that she's finished with this conversation and Dean can't decide whether to push or not. He finally chooses not to -- he's done enough of that lately, and with things much more traumatic than this -- and Sam deserves a break. 

"Any ideas where we're gonna find a boat?" Dean asks. Sam doesn't answer him. She's not sleeping, he knows that, but her eyes are closed and her shoulders are tense. "Maybe we can put Benny on it, give him something to do." 

Still no answer. Dean gives up, goes back to scrubbing the last of the cauldrons.

\--

After dinner -- spaghetti and meatballs for Dean, plain pasta for Sam -- they curl up together on the couch. Shelley's asleep near the front door, apparently her favourite place, and Chloe's on the floor right next to the them, awake but yawning. There's a set of rabbit ears on top of the TV but even with the antenna's help, the cabin's tucked back deep into the woods and too far away from civilisation to get more than a faint signal on a couple of local channels. Dean keeps flipping back and forth, trying to decide which one has less static, eventually settles on an old episode of _Friends_. He puts it on mute; they get a better picture than they do audio. Sam tries to hide a yawn but Dean feels it. 

"Should we go to bed?" he asks. 

"Nah," Sam says. She shifts a little, says, "I'm --" before Dean cuts off. 

He puts a hand over her mouth, shoves gently at her ankle. "If you say you're fine one more time," he says, "then I'm gonna -- okay, so I don't know what I'm gonna do, but I'll think of something and I'll make sure you won't like it. I know you're not fine, Sam, neither of us are anywhere close to being fine, and I know I don't usually like to talk about this shit, but -- y'know." 

Neither of them were big into talking when they were younger, Dean about emotions or Sam about his gender issues. It got a little better after Stanford, even moreso the year after Sam died and Dean made the deal, the time limit cracking down on both of them and splitting their reluctance to pieces, but Dean's time in hell changed everything for them. Once he confessed about his apprenticeship to Alastair, once Sam told him about the blood drinking and what she'd been doing with Abaddon, it seemed like nothing else would ever be as bad as those things, like since they got that cleared up between them, they could handle anything. 

The cage kind of tore that easy give-and-take in half. Sam was soulless when he came back and then she had her soul and her memories again and it was all Dean could do to get her to talk about the five weeks they were separated. She's never told him much about the cage but she talks in her sleep sometimes and for the first few months after the memories came back, she only slept in Dean's arms and, even then, only for a few hours at a time. 

He didn't want to press her when it was clear she was living on the brink of a very delicate sanity and then the whole thing with Cas and Eve and the leviathans happened and they were just too busy for any real heart-to-hearts. That's something Dean spent his time in purgatory regretting -- he should have made time. There was so much they needed to talk about, so much they needed to plan for, and they never did. He should have clawed out time with his fucking nails.

Talking about himself may be one of Dean's least favourite things in the world but it helps them both, just like sometimes that's the only way he ever knows what's going on in Sam's mind. He's pushed so much since he's been back, pulled stories and details from Sam, frayed himself apart to try and tell her even a fifth of what purgatory was like. 

And yet -- there's so much more. 

"Tell me something," Dean says. "Not about your research or about Kevin or Amelia or anyone else, not about the dogs. Just -- just something about you." 

"I missed you," Sam says, five or six minutes later. "I don't like who I am without you. I don't like the lengths we go to for each other. There were some -- I did some things I'm not proud of but I can't imagine doing anything different. You were gone and the only thing I could think of was getting you back." 

Dean exhales. He knew all of that, feels the same way. Hell, he sold his soul for her; they're twined together so tightly that the thought of living apart -- dying apart -- is ridiculous. Hearing it, though. Hearing it has always hurt. 

Sam lets out a breath, says, "I -- I thought about the demon blood. Every time I summoned one, I thought about draining them and letting the power fill me up again. A part of me was convinced that it might help to open the portal, might help me stabilise it, might give the spells enough force to pull you back towards earth. I was -- I nearly gave in, Dean. Half the reason I stopped eating was because I didn't want to be -- I didn't want to feel the hunger. But I was so close to the edge. I had a plan; I knew exactly what I was going to do and what I would need. I was going to summon Belial and Pythias and Bathin and Paimon again and drink enough of them to bind them to my will, and then I was going to use them to rip a hole in the universe."

"Sounds like I got back just in time," Dean says. 

The thought of her going on the demon blood isn't as horrifying as it used be; maybe because he knows that she can detox, maybe because he knows that he would've done anything to get back to her even a day sooner and he can't blame her for the exact same thing. The eating -- or lack of, anyway -- makes more sense now, Sam's thirst for the blood combined with an eating disorder she's fought even longer. Dean's never been a big fan of Sam's coping mechanisms, especially when they leave her practically skin and bones, like now, but she's still clean and that's no little achievement. Sam's an addict, always will be, and from the few tastes he had down in hell, slicing souls apart and watching demons torturing other demons, he knows the blood tastes good going down, hot and smooth and rich. Thank god he wasn't dosed as a child, that it doesn't do anything for him, or he might have become just as addicted. 

Those demons, though -- Dean knows them all, the names, at least; thankfully he's never met them. They're all powerful, each and every one, and if Sam was going to summon them _again_ , they must be the ones she meant when she said she went old for demons. Shit. There probably aren't any demons older than those four. 

"Would it have worked?" Dean asks, out of morbid curiosity rather than anything else. 

"I think so," Sam says. "Paimon knows secrets, Belial's all about breaking things -- laws, boundaries, worlds, whatever -- and Bathin's astral projection and transmutation. Pythias would have been first, dominion over liars, so if I bound him, he could be sure the other demons were telling the truth. Between the four of them and the portal I'd already got to open, I know I could have broken the barrier to purgatory apart. I just wasn't sure if I'd be able to close it up again." 

Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair. "I wouldn't have been angry," he tells her. _Friends_ has changed to _Wheel of Fortune_ on the television, three-word phrase for 'Things.' That's always been the worst category. "I wanted to get back to you just as much. If I'd had to take a chance like that, I would've done it. You're right, you know: we're horrible when we're apart. Much safer to stay together all the time. We'll have to share beds, and showers, and the front seat, the couch, the kitchen table, pretty much everything." 

Sam snorts and Dean feels her tension decrease a little at his humour -- it's not a joke; under the tone, every single word he said was true. "I was afraid that if I bound those four to me, it might make me -- I might not have been able to come back from it." 

"If you're asking if I'd still -- if I'd still want you," Dean says, "then the answer's yes, of course, duh, who's the idiot now. Even if you went all yellow-eyed and ended up -- I'd still -- nothing can stop that, Sammy. Nothing ever will, I swear. So, y'know, you could be all-powerful and in charge of everything and I could, I dunno, become a knight like Abaddon or some kind of demon, whatever, and --" 

"You're crazy if you think I'd ever let you become a demon," Sam says, cutting him off. She sits up enough to give Dean a narrow-eyed look. "Especially an insane one like Abs turned out to be. But -- I mean, would -- you'd let me? You'd want that if I -- not that it's going to happen, of course, but if it had, or --." 

Dean reaches up, holds Sam's cheek and doesn't try to hide his smile as she turns into his touch. "I'd let you do anything, sweetheart." 

The look on Sam's face, shit. That's the reason he fought so hard to get back from purgatory. That's the entire reason he's still alive today after everything they've been through. He really would do anything for her; the look on her face right now is half the reason why.

She lifts her hands, traces fingertips across Dean's forehead, down his cheeks, along the curve of his jaw and then back up, thumbs trailing the sides of his nose and following the laugh lines that flare out from the corners of his mouth. "I don't say it enough," she says, "but I love you, Dean. More than anything in any world. You know that, right?" 

"Yeah," Dean says. "I know." 

\--

They fall asleep on the couch, flickering colours from the television keeping the room light and warm around them.


	6. Chapter 6

// _Day Five_ //

Sun streams in through the thin curtains; a line of light is hitting Dean's left eye and that's what wakes him up. He shifts, can't figure out why his back feels so tight and his knees are in desperate need of a pop, but then Sam yawns, makes a displeased noise in his arms. 

"Yeah, I know," Dean mutters. "We gotta get some thicker curtains." 

"Should let the dogs out," Sam mumbles. "Coffee?" 

She rolls out of Dean's hold, turns the fall off the couch into a graceful stand that Dean watches with one eye and then applauds. Her glare is ruined by the hitching little yawn she can't hide and Dean laughs. He feels -- lighter, this morning, and he can tell Sam feels the same way, a little bit more relaxed, a little bit more trust that he's here and he's not going anywhere. He's not sure what he said last night that got through to her when the first few days hadn't but he's so glad he stumbled on something that's worked. 

Dean sits up, spreads his legs and lets his head fall back onto the top of the couch, closes his eyes as he adjusts his dick. Apparently morning wood's come back with a vengeance. 

Sam comes back in, Shelley dancing around her feet and Chloe standing up on her hind legs, front legs on Sam's chest, every so often, licking Sam's face. She's laughing, hums when she gets the coffee going, and Dean expects her to sit back on the couch, maybe sprawl over him, or try to convince him to shower before the coffee's ready. Instead, she feeds the dogs and then there's silence. Dean opens one eye, is prepared to look around to find her and is surprised when he sees that she's kneeling between his legs. He swallows, meeting her eyes. 

"You don't have to," he says, as Sam's reaching for his jeans. 

"You said that last time," Sam says. "And my answer's still the same. I know I don't need to do it for you, but maybe I need to do it for me, okay? Maybe," and she pulls down his jeans and briefs, Dean lifting his hips to help, "this is all I had to think about for a fucking year: the weight of you on my tongue, the feel of your hands in my hair, the goddamned _taste_ and the noises you make when you come down my throat." 

Dean licks his lips, says, voice hoarse, "So, you missed my dick, huh?"

Sam looks up at him, one hand around the base of his cock, and says, "You have no fucking idea," and then leans forward, takes him in her mouth. 

He wants to tell her -- jesus, he wants to tell her that he does have a fucking idea, thank you very much, that he spent long miles in purgatory imagining her, dreaming of fucking her, practically hearing the way she says his name just before she comes. He spent a goddamned year in purgatory without the taste of her in his mouth, without the pain of her nails scratching down his back or the soft touches of her fingertips tracing the lines of his cheekbones and jaw, without the times when sex is just as much a fight as any hunt but also the times when it's soft and gentle, first-thing-in-the-morning sex when she's still a little wet from the night before and he can slide into her and make her come with a long groan of contentment just by rocking them together. He spent a year focused on nothing but getting back to her and she thinks he has no idea? Fuck that. _Fuck_ that. 

Dean wraps one hand in Sam's hair, yanks hard enough to make her choke, and makes sure she's looking at him through her watering eyes. "I," he says, very clearly, teeth practically bared, "have a fucking idea, Sam. We're not gonna argue about who had it worse, or who went through more, but you have been the center of my fucking life since you were born. I have a good goddamned idea." 

He doesn't loosen his grip; Sam fights him, spits his dick out of her mouth and then leans back as far as she can. The pull on her scalp has to be painful -- Dean can almost see the tug of her skin -- but she doesn't show it. Instead, she just looks tired. Before purgatory, before their separation, she would be just as angry as Dean, just as ready to bleed him, would be showing her teeth and narrowing her eyes, but now she's _tired_ , a bone-deep level of insecure fatigue and bitter self-hatred that Dean's never seen on his sister.

"I know," she says, and Dean lets go of her hair when he hears her tone of voice. "Sorry. I don't -- thinking hasn't exactly been my strongest feature the last -- well. Since -- you know." She looks down at her hands for a moment as if she expects to see something, then looks back up at Dean. She doesn't meet his eyes, sets her gaze somewhere on his chin, and asks, "Can I still?" as she gestures towards his crotch.

Dean closes his eyes and feels like the worst kind of person imaginable as he says, "Whatever you want, sweetheart." 

\--

Her movements after that are hesitant. She's slow to get back close to him, slow to take him in her hand again, slow to open her mouth to him. She does, though. Dean opens his eyes, watches as she licks, first, then sucks lightly, then swallows him down. "Christ, Sam," he murmurs. She's so thin and her skin's stretched so tight over her throat that he can see the bulge of his cock inside her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says, over and over again, the only words he can get out as he resists the urge to thrust even deeper into her. 

He comes and Sam swallows, sucks at him until he's gone soft in her mouth and then sits on her heels with the faint traces of a pleased -- _satiated_ \-- smile on her face. Her eyes are guarded but her shoulders have relaxed a little; she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up at him. "We good?"

Dean stares, finally says, "Yeah, we're -- fuck, sweetheart, get -- get up here," and he tries to kickstart his body into moving. It doesn't work too well but Sam does end up on the couch, sitting next to him but with her legs thrown over his lap. 

"Coffee's probably ready," Sam tells him. 

"It can wait," Dean says. 

She looks at him and says, cautiously, "Wow. Purgatory really _did_ change you." 

She's being careful and Dean wants to keep the truce going but she's not wrong. His reflexes are higher than they've ever been, his first instinct is to go for the kill, and he came back even more possessive of Sam, even more determined to never let her out of his sight and to hurt -- violently -- anyone who even thinks of separating them. She may not fully trust that he's back, with her, but he doesn't want to let her out of his sight for the simple fact that she's _his_. 

"Hey," Sam says, covering his hand with hers. "It's okay. Whatever happened, it's okay. We'll manage. We managed with me, y'know, growing up; we can handle things now." Sam squeezes his hand, waits until he's looking at her before she says, "It's like you said: we'll be fine. We're back together; we'll be fine. It might take us a while but we'll get there." 

"Yeah," Dean says. He lets out a long, deep breath. "I know."

\--

Dean eats two almost-overflowing bowls of cereal for breakfast. Sam eats the recommended serving size and a few swallows of milk. She throws it all up twenty minutes later.

\--

Once they've both showered -- separately but with the bathroom door open -- Dean and Sam stand in the middle of the living room, Dean with his hands on his hips, and look around. It's a thirty-two hour drive from Baton Rouge to Kalispell; Benny may have a car but he'll probably be hitching part of the way, so Dean's guessing that he won't call until tomorrow. They need to get everything cleaned up before he gets to Montana, and, "The sigils will have to go," Dean says. "Unless you're gonna tell me those are paint and not blood." 

Sam winces but nods, reluctant. "Once we bleach them off, I'll paint them on again. I've -- _we've_ \-- got a couple buckets outside and I think there's some spray paint around somewhere, too." 

"Think if we just painted over them, that would hide the smell enough?" Dean asks. 

"We could always mix a few drops of blood into the paint," Sam says, after a moment's thought. "The sigils'll work better with blood from both of us, and that should hide most of the smell. Painting over them might not; I don't know how keen Benny's sense of smell is." 

Dean grins, can't help it. "Pretty keen," he says. "Y'know, maybe instead of swallowing next time, you should just let me --." 

"You are _such_ a pig," Sam says. She doesn't tell him no, though, and as he's cleaning off the sigils and Sam's repainting them almost as fast, Dean thinks about her wearing his come, rubbing it into her skin, covering her with his scent until that's all any creature would be able to smell. 

...Fuck.

\--

Sam blows him again after dinner -- burgers and oven fries for Dean, most of a plain baked potato for Sam -- and Dean's catching his breath and trying to get his knees working again as he asks, "Are you ever gonna give me the chance to return the favour?" 

"Saving them up for later," Sam says, wicked grin on her face as she wipes a few drops of come off her cheek, licks her thumb clean. "Gonna cash them all in at the same time 'nd make you my sex slave for a full day." 

Dean waits until Sam climbs up on the couch with him before he pokes at Sam's side, right over her ticklish spot. "You wouldn't last a full day, sweetheart," he says, after she's squealed and while he's wiggling his eyebrows, leering at her. "I bet you'd be screaming mercy after an hour."

Sam gets her heel on Dean's crotch, pushes, and it's a hard enough shove that he hisses at the pressure against his dick, still sensitive from Sam's mouth. "I bet I could last a lot longer than you think. Besides, you'd be my slave, remember? You'd have to do everything I'd tell you." 

"When you're up to it," Dean promises, "we'll take a fucking _week_ if you want." 

He eyes the bruises and marks from the sex they had a few days ago and he has to grudgingly admit Amelia had a point: it does look like Dean's been abusing her. She's got the perfect outline of his hands and fingers around her wrists in a yellow that stands out and looks sick against the tattoos, and her neck hasn't moved past black-and-blue yet. He hates that he hurt her, hates that she's so fragile, but he doesn't regret a second of it, not when seeing his claim on her soothes something inside of him, something he's tried to keep a lid on since Cas pulled him out of hell. 

Dean may not have tortured anyone in purgatory but he wasn't merciful, either, and Alastair was right, all those years ago -- he is good at this, good at killing and better at hurting other people. He takes pleasure in it. Even with Sam, the most important person in his _life_ , he looks at his marks on her and the bestial part of him that Alastair honed into a dealer of torture and death fucking _purrs_.

"Whatever you're thinking," Sam says, "it's not about sex, I can tell. Are you -- if you wanna -- I mean, you don't -- we could go to bed. It's getting late and we've pretty much got everything ready for when your vampire calls."

"You're too good for me," Dean says. 

Sam rolls her eyes. "I'm addicted to demon blood and I started the apocalypse, Dean," she says dryly. "The only thing I'm good enough for is hell." 

Dean stands up, picks Sam up in his arms bridal-style. "You're good enough for everyone and everything," he tells her as they move to the bedroom. He dumps her on the bed; Sam bounces and looks up at him, one raised eyebrow and a grin playing at the corners of her mouth. "In case you forgot, you started the demon blood thing for me, just like you killed Lilith for me. All the time you spent in hell, you were being -- I _wanted_ it, Sam. I was close to becoming one of them."

"Yeah, but -- get down here," she says, tugging Dean's arm until he's off-balance enough to fall nearly on top of her. "So you're a little bloodthirsty sometimes, who cares. I am, too, just -- uh -- just literally," and Dean groans at the wordplay. "Look, it's too late to argue about this when we know we're not gonna agree on anything. We can pick it back up in the morning or whatever. Okay?" 

"I'll let the whole thing drop if we can sleep naked tonight," Dean says. 

Sam smiles, drawls, "Oh, I think I can handle that. Maybe. But I'm adding it to my tally and _you_ get to tell the dogs they can't sleep on the bed tonight." 

Dean tweaks Sam's nose, says, "Deal."


End file.
